Pete Lit

Boy's gotta have it.

Kölsch

One of the nice things about having a garage sale, or any other sort of clutter-purging, is unexpectedly discovering stuff that isn't clutter at all. Preparing for our garage sale of this weekend, I opened up a box in the basement that hadn't been touched in years. I assumed everything in there was junk to be sold, but was surprised to find a smaller box inside that contained the five glasses in the photo above. They're beer glasses, or more specifically Kölsch glasses, after the beer style native to the Cologne area of northern Germany. The glasses were a family hand-me-down from my cousin Bud in Green Bay, Wisconsin, who passed away during the late 1990s. We last had these glasses out on display in our condo in Chicago, more than ten years ago, but they were packed up when we moved and never re-emerged until just now. I knew they probably hadn't ever been thrown away, but still I always wondered where they were. Once found again, I cleaned them up and now have them on display in a cabinet.

The fact that they're Kölsch glasses has even greater meaning for me, given that Kölsch was the first real beer I ever drank (sorry, Heilemann's Old Style, you really don't qualify) during a visit to Germany when I was sixteen years old. In fact, the two glasses on the right - Küppers and Dom - are the two brands I remember consuming the most while I was there. So I'm doubly pleased to have these glasses again.

Of course, there's only one way to make these great-looking glasses look even better:



My local liquor store is pretty limited on German beers in general (the dudes in line in front of me were buying cases of Bud Light and shooters of Cuervo), and of course had no genuine Kölsch. So I went with Dortmunder Gold from Great Lakes Brewing (from Cleveland, Ohio), with Dortmund being as close as I could get to Cologne. Last night, after getting the garage sale remnants disposed of and myself cleaned up, I cracked one open, poured it in the Küppers glass, and had a wonderfully refreshing and relaxing time.

I have the best wife in the entire world!

Okay, so I have thousands of ways to back up that statement, more than I could ever fully elaborate upon here. So I'll cite just three examples from this weekend:

On Friday morning, she called me at the office. Fridays are when she and Maddie hit the local garage sales, hunting for unique finds, and the first thing she says is "What kind of camera do you have?" Long story short, I have two Mamiya-Sekor SLRs from the early 1970s, and she found me yet another, a 1000 DTL (I have a 500 DTL and a DSX 1000) in a complete kit. The camera's in great condition, but what really has me excited is the 50mm and 135mm lenses, both of which I've wanted for years. Once I get the lenses cleaned up, I think this will lead to a resurgence in my print photography. The fact that she was looking out for something I'd like to have, when she'd undoubtedly rather be hunting for Pyrex bowls or antique cast iron pans, really touched me.

Yesterday, after the three of us came home from another garage sale, I accidentally dropped the vintage Atari 2600 we had just bought for $3, and it's a testament to Julie that she didn't divorce me on the spot. Given how excited she was about the Atari - she's a passionate videogamer - she would have been totally justified in doing so, or at least locking me out of the house for the night. But instead she forgave me (I think!) and we found the Atari didn't sustain any serious damage. The Mario Bros. cartridge worked (albeit not to 2010 technological standards) though we still have to tweak the system somehow to get Asteroids to work.

Then this morning, I slept in until after 8 (very late for me) and awoke to the heavenly smell of Muffins That Taste Like Donuts. Julie's not a morning person, but she still got up early and baked this delicious breakfast from scratch. And now we're having our typical Sunday morning - sitting on the couch, surfing the web, drinking espresso, eating goodies, and watching TLC. I couldn't be happier, and Julie is most of the reason for that. (Maddie, too, of course, but Julie gets much of the credit for her as well.)

Baby, if you ever wondered, wondered whatever became of me...

No, I haven't been living on the air in Cincinnati, Cincinnati WKRP - just visiting there over the weekend for a family reunion. Until this weekend, I never realized how much my family is into euchre - the late-night scene in the "hospitality suite" we always rent at the hotel is now confined almost completely to cards - or how much more difficult candlepin bowling is compared to regular bowling.

As I've mentioned previously, whenever we're out of town we like to find a local coffee shop for our daily espresso instead of taking the lazy way out at Starbucks. This trip was no exception - after an aborted stop at one local place I found on Google last week, a bit of technologically-assisted intuition (our car's GPS gave us a list, and from those names and addresses I divined the right place to go) brought us to the wonderful Branch Hill Coffee in Loveland. It's a charming little place, just up the road from the Little Miami River, that had a real espresso machine (none of that pushbutton crap you find everywhere these days) and fresh baked goods - the scones were not only right out of the oven, but were even still on the cookie sheet when we arrived. The espresso was great. If you find yourself in the north suburbs of Cincinnati and in need of a coffee fix, I highly recommending finding this place.

And right across the parking lot from our hotel was a Graeter's ice cream shop, which quite simply is just about the best ice cream I've ever had. The caramel ice cream was incredibly smooth and melted (literally and figuratively) in my mouth. Definitely worth a visit, whether or not you have calories to spare.

Here come the Hawks, the mighty Blackhawks...

...and several years earlier than I would have expected. I had thought the Blackhawks were right there on the brink, though maybe still a year or two away from being championship caliber. Yet here they are, just one win away from their first Stanley Cup in almost fifty years.

I must admit that my Blackhawks history is surprisingly spotty. Given that I come from a Chicago-area spectator-sports-loving family and was quite a sports a fanatic myself for my first three decades, and have always admired hockey, I've never really been a big fan of the team.

When I was five or six, I remember listening to Hawks games on WIND in the evening, to lull myself to sleep. That was at the tail end of the era of Bobby Hull (part of the renowned MPH line, with Pit Martin and Jim Pappin), just before Hull bolted for the richer pastures of Winnipeg and the fledgling World Hockey League and put the team on a downward spiral that it didn't recover from for nearly two decades.

After Hull departed my fandom did as well, and was revived only during the late 80s and early 90s when, fresh out of college, I finally attended my first Hawks games at the legendary old Chicago Stadium and was instantly hooked. Watching games from the second balcony there was truly an unforgettable experience. Cheap-seats Hawks fans are probably the most passionate and knowledgable sports fans anywhere - and also cynical and sarcastic, which of course immediately endeared them to me. Two anecdotes from that period:

First: Back then the Hawks' power play was particulary inept. Even with a man advantage they'd be lucky to get off more than one or two shots on goal, and rarely scoring - in fact, a shorthanded goal by the other team was at least as likely as the Hawks scoring on the power play. It got so bad that when the Hawks were on a power play and dumped the puck across the blue line (since Denis Savard seemed to be the only guy on the entire team who could stick-handle the puck across the line, even with a man advantage), the guys in the second balcony would call out "Line change!", as if the best the Hawks could hope for on the power play wasn't a goal, but a moderately successful change of lines. Thing is, those fans were deadly accurate in that assessment.

Second: Ed Olczyk was a local Chicago kid who was a high draft pick of the Hawks and played several unaccomplished seasons with the team. Then he was traded away, to Winnipeg, and I happened to be at his first game back in Chicago after being traded. "This is cool," I thought. "The fans will definitely give the local guy a warm welcome on his return. Was I ever wrong. When they announced Olczyk before the game, some guy in the second balcony yelled, "Hey Olczyk! Your wife's a dyke!" Obviously I have no idea how accurate that comment was, but it was hysterical none the less.

Back then, the team's dinosaur owner, Bill Wirtz, refused to broadcast home games on local TV, even when the games were sold out, arguing that it wasn't fair to the ticket-buying fans. (Who presumably couldn't care less, since they wouldn't need to watch on TV anyway.) This mindless stance even extended to playoff games, and when the Hawks made the playoffs in 1991, I went so far as to watch every game at Sluggers in Wrigleyville, which swiped every game off the satellite dish and made a small fortune showing them on a huge projection screen in their back room. (Being there also gave me the memorable sight of a drunken patron, who had been at the Cub game that afternoon and whose drinking day had undoubtedly commenced around mid-morning, blearily marking the end of a Hawks' loss by flinging a full can of beer at the big screen. And not being ejected.)

My buddy Chris and I would sit there in the plastic lawn chairs at Sluggers during the Hawks-North Stars opening series, drinking far too many beers for a weeknight, and wondering if there would be enough players left on the ice to finish the game after the endless fights (especially between the troglodyte tag-teams of Stu Grimson-Mike Peluso vs. Basil McRae-Shane Churla) sent most of both rosters to the penalty box. But spending the next two years in Champaign for grad school dampened my ardor for the Hawks, even despite them reaching the 1992 Stanley Cup finals but losing to Pittsburgh, in what would be their last finals appearance before this season. And I've mostly been away from the team ever since.

Ah, yes, this season. Bill Wirtz passed away several years ago, and his son Rocky has totally revitalized the team, doing all of the right things. Putting home games on TV. Embracing the team's old icons - Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, Tony Esposito - and bringing them back as heroes and the best goodwill ambassadors the team could possible have. Signing the team's young stars - Kane, Toews, Keith - to expensive long-term deals, locking them up as the stable core of the team for years to come instead of pinching pennies and letting them escape as free agents. And now they're one win from their first Stanley Cup since 1961.

And yet I can't really claim to being a fan, or truly savoring their fantastic playoff run. I just don't have that emotional attachment to the team, haven't been to a game in person for fifteen years didn't even watch a substantial portion of a game on TV this season until just this past Sunday, and am only just now figuring out how to pronounce "Byfuglien." So instead of getting stark-raving-mad, red-jersey-attired like most of the city seems to have become, I'm instead admiring the Hawks from a safe distance. Part of that is that I hate bandwagoners and know I have no right to claim to suddenly be a fan after ignoring the team for so long, and suppose part of it is also that, being so familiar with Chicago sports for so many years, there's always the nagging feeling that defeat will ultimately be snatched from the jaws of victory, as the Bears and especially the Cubs have proven so memorably, time and again.

When the Hawks win it - and I do mean when; they truly seem to be the team of destiny - I'll just sit back, smile, and raise a glass to them. But I won't be getting shitfaced drunk, running out to the souvenir stand or lining up for the victory parade. It will be their victory, and that of their true-blooded and long-suffering fans, but not mine. And I'm fine with that. This is great for Chicago, and I'm glad to be a part of it, even from such a far distance.

Quote

"It's so hot, I feel like my neck is melting and my head is sliding into my shoulders...like Andy Rooney."
- Madeleine Anderson, 5/29/10

Love It Love It Love It!

Here's a fantastic gallery of background artwork from various Warner Brothers/Looney Tunes cartoons from way back in the day. I was heavily into Looney Tunes when I was growing up (weekdays on The Ray Rayner Show and Saturday mornings on CBS) and always loved the artwork. These stills show that even the backgrounds were wonderful.

(Via Drawn!.)

Not only are my parents awesome...

...but now they've also been immortalized for their roles in what was purportedly the first panty raid in history, at Augustana College in 1949. Just good clean fun, though the starched college elders and many students' parents were scandalized by the event.

Three more for the pile

The Joliet Public Library had one of its periodic book sales this past Saturday. Recognizing the folloy of such declarations, I've given up on making any sort of vows against acquiring any more books until my to-read pile is down to a manageable level. I've made these vows repeatedly in the past, only to break them at the next good opportunity. I've come to grips with the fact that I have a book addiction - which is pretty benign as addictions go, especially since most of the books I acquire are from library sales, book recycling events and used book stores. I rarely buy a new copy of a book, and even then never at full price. So being a book addict (and a frugal one at that) isn't going to kill me, so there's little reason to resist the urge.

That said, going forward I'm going to at least temper my acquisitive mania at such events by trying (just trying, mind you) to limit myself to unique volumes which can't easily be found elsewhere. (Including, of course, the Joliet Public Library, which is completely purging many of these titles from its holdings.) The three books I picked up Saturday are case in point:

Finley Peter Dunne, Mr. Dooley Remembers: The Informal Memoirs of Finley Peter Dunne
Conversations with Isaac Bashevis Singer
Kurt Vonnegut, Happy Birthday Wanda June

The first is a combination of the memoirs of Dunne (the great Chicago journalist), Philip Dunne's remembrances of his father, and several of Dunne's trademark "Mr. Dooley" pieces. The second is edited interviews with the great Singer. The third is the only Vonnegut stage play I'm aware of. I'm very interested in reading each one, but probably couldn't otherwise find a copy to read without a great deal of hunting. So I think this shows some restraint. And we definitely showed restraint by not bringing home an unabridged Webster's dictionary - the thing was enormous, and had to weigh at least 25 pounds - which we could have had for just a few bucks. But we had no good place to display it and already have several other dictionaries, so we declined.

Oh, and as it turns out my library sale mania apparently isn't that manic at all. Check out this phenomenon. Camping out and tailgating - for a library sale. Awesome.

B.J. & Dirty Dragon

That image above is an autographed photograph from Chicago's "The BJ and Dirty Dragon Show", circa 1972. The human in the photo is BJ (Bill Jackson) and to his right is the smoke-spewing Dirty Dragon, while the big-grinned google-eyed character just below BJ's right hand is Weird. I've long since forgotten the names of all the other characters shown. The show was on every weekday right after school back then and was a beloved part of my childhood.

Readers of a certain age may recall the "BJ's Gigglesnort Hotel" show which ran nationally (on CBS, I think) during the mid-70s, but the Dirty Dragon show actually predated Gigglesnort Hotel and ran only locally, on WFLD Channel 32. Both shows had many of the same characters (some puppets, some human actors in costume) and the same weird brand of humor. My favorite part of the Dirty Dragon show (don't remember if it was also part of Gigglesnort Hotel - I didn't watch that show very much) was with Blob, a formless hunk of modeling clay which BJ crafted into a different object each show. Though that might not sound unusual or particularly interesting, I should point out that Blob was an actual character of the show who would talk to BJ in a lively but completely unintelligible voice as BJ worked - and also emitted moans of discomfort and/or pain when BJ carved up large pieces of him. A very odd routine, but my seven-year-old self loved it.

The photo was my reward for running a backyard carnival on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association, which was Bill Jackson's favorite cause. My carnival consisted almost entirely of very lame games (Bozo Buckets, sack races, etc.) that neighbors and friends played for prizes (mostly candy bars, as I recall), with all of the proceeds from game tickets, refreshments, etc. being sent to the MDA via the Dirty Dragon show. It was my first exposure to fundraising, and though I probably didn't raise more than ten or twenty dollars I was pretty pleased with myself for accomplishing even that little. I would have been more than satisfied with just that, which made the completely unexpected arrival of this wonderful photograph to be doubly sweet.

My Parents Were (Indeed) Awesome

Despite my earlier impatience, it's now official: My Parents Were Awesome.

Happy Birthday, Abe

That birthday sentiment is partly for Abe Lincoln, of course, but mostly for my dad, John Anderson, who would have been 84 today. His family nickname of Abe came about from my grandfather wanting him to be named Abraham Lincoln Anderson, an idea which I think would have been pretty cool but which my grandmother promptly nixed. That picture of above is him with Maddie (then 21 months old). He thoroughly loved his kids and his grandkids, and to him family was the most important thing in the world. His childhood family life was very difficult, and I think he was thoroughly grateful for the family he helped create and raise as an adult.

My dad was a boisterous and generous man who was the most positive person I've ever known, even despite the various health ailments that plagued his final years. Every workday when he'd come home you could hear him whistling (hopelessly off-key) before he even came in the door, whatever tensions he might have had from work having been left far behind at the office. He lived every day to the fullest, making the best of what he had and not worrying about what he lacked. Strange as it might sound, he was also, simultaneously, both an extrovert and a private person. He could talk to anyone all day long, but unless you really knew him well you really didn't know him at all. He and I didn't always understand each other, and I really wish I had been closer to him at the end to share what he was going through - not that he would necessarily have opened up anyway - and to tell him how much he meant to me. I hope he knew all of that anyway, even if it was mostly left unsaid.

Though I think about him every day and wish he was still around, I'm truly blessed to have known him for as long as I did - almost forty years. He's the greatest man I've ever known, and my own life is both a reflection of and a response to his. I'm always striving to adopt his stronger points - especially that positive attitude - and while he also had plenty of shortcomings, I try to learn from those as well. I miss you, Dad.

National Handwriting Day

Not Fade Away

My friend Frank Jump is the subject of a lovely film by Jim Sayegh, Not Fade Away. The film highlights Frank's photographic documenting of "fading ads" painted on brick walls in New York City and elsewhere, which he charmingly refers to as "this ongoing project that doesn't want to go away." Frank has been a huge inspiration to me, both in photography and life in general. Please take a look at the film.

Sighted

While driving home today from a family getaway at a resort in Utica, Illinois, we decided we needed espresso. So we looked up "coffeehouses" on our car's GPS and found the nearest shop was in Ottawa, the next town over on our way home. As the GPS often seems to do, it directed us to take a local highway (U.S. Route 6) instead of an expressway (I-80, which we drove to Utica). Figuring we weren't in much of a hurry anyway, we decided to take the scenic route and go with Route 6. Along the way, in a farm field just outside of Ottawa, my attention was grabbed by the sight of a dozen large birds grazing in the corn stubble. Canada geese are such a common sight in our area that those were my first impression, but I quickly realized that these birds were much bigger than geese. "Pheasants?" Julie, who was driving, guessed. "No," I said, getting a better look. "Wild turkeys." And huge ones, at least to my non-hunter eyes.

If roast turkey was a Christmas tradition for us, I would have seriously considered stopping and hurrying into the field with a heavy stick and a burlap bag, in lieu of a Butterball from the store. But we drove on, awed (at least me, anyway) by the sight, and enjoyed our brief visit to Ottawa and what turned out to be pretty darned good espresso.

"why should he downgrade?"

I almost never receive text messages, and most of those I do get arrive in error - the texting version of a "wrong number." Last night I got this wrong number:

Jason will never get back with you regardless of me and him breaking up. why would he downgrade? you should quit while YOU THINK your ahead.

In my younger, bad-attitude days, I probably would have replied to this message, pretending to be the intended recipient and escalating the dialogue into an outright catfight. But I've matured beyond that stage. I think.

Five great things

+ Duck sausage sandwich and bitter ale at Goose Island.
+ Lunch conversations with Ben Tanzer.
+ Riding Metra to work, especially on frigid, snowy or rainy days.
+ The fiction of Aleksandar Hemon.
+ Julie and Maddie, my two biggest and best reasons for being.

Fight for pride and honor, lift old Cary-Grove on high

All hail the mighty Trojans of Cary-Grove High School (my alma mater) which won its first Illinois state football title yesterday, knocking off Providence 35-17 in the 6A championship game. This is the first football title in the school's 48-year history. In fact, the school hadn't won a state title in any sport until just this year, until  the girls' volleyball team won the 4A title last month. Quite a year for the denizens and former denizens of Cary, Fox River Grove, Oakwood Hills, et al. Hurrah!

Happy Thanksgiving

Or, as this image from the inimitable Cake Wrecks says, Happy Tanksgiven. We've all been having a good laugh about this today, reciting it in a Jamaican accent with the oligatory "...mon" at the end. In a few hours we're heading to my mother-in-laws' for dinner, and I intend to greet everyone in this manner. Have a terrific day, and remember all that you have to be thankful for - including not having to hear me attempt an Jamaican accent.

Dorothy & John

I submitted this photo to the wonderful My Parents Were Awesome several weeks ago, but since I've gotten impatient waiting for the site to post it, I thought I'd just go ahead and post it here. That's my parents, Dorothy and John Anderson, during their college years in the late forties. And for the record, though my awesome but late dad is no longer with us, my mom is still thriving and remains quite awesome.

Actual conversation

Maddie: Will you help me fight the dark?
Pete: Sure, but later.
Maddie: There is no 'later' in fighting the dark.

Kickapoo

The foolish young man in this photo is none other than myself, circa 1985. I'm standing on a railroad trestle, about a hundred feet above the Vermilion River in Kickapoo State Park, just outside of Danville, Illinois. It was a single track with no railings or any other safety features other than a single side platform halfway across which one could use to escape from an oncoming train. One had to walk across on just the wooden rail ties, step by careful step, with nothing but empty air beneath. Which, being daring and/or stupid, I did. Though the view was pretty spectacular, in hindsight it probably wasn't worth the risk. My buddy Fred was smart enough to stay off the trestle and instead just take the photograph, which he was kind enough to mail to me recently and remind me what it was like to be young and stupid.

Coffee on the road

During our occasional travels, Julie and I have increasingly sought out local, independent coffee houses for our daily espresso fix. Early on, we'd just take the easy coffee route and head for the nearest Starbucks, but as that chain has steadily declined in quality we've begun to look elsewhere. Here's some good ones we've found.

Java Joe's, Hilton Head Island, South Carolina
Just blocks from the beach, where the ravenous seagulls will be more than happy to rip your scone out your hand if you're not careful. Java Joe's is tiny but comfortable (despite the tight space, we were still able to wheel in Maddie's stroller when she was a baby and park it next to the couch) with plenty of local flavor.

The Green Sage, Asheville, North Carolina
We overnighted in Asheville on our most recent drive to and from Hilton Head, and were quite pleased to find this place. Very organic and crunchy-granola kind of place (even for bohemian Asheville) with very good espresso and great baked goods.

Perkfection, Jeffersonville, Indiana
Espresso here was so-so (though much better than I expected in small-town Indiana) but the food was pretty good. A pleasant stopover during a long car journey.

Mocha, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Our most recent discovery, and definitely one of our favorites. Great espresso, fine baked goods, plenty of comfy chairs, a nice urban feel and big street windows for people-watching. (Regarding the latter: most of the people in the Westown neighborhood on weekend mornings seem to be female joggers, for some reason. Not sure where the guys were, other than maybe sleeping off the previous night's bender.) 

Drink Coffee, Sister Bay, Wisconsin
When we visited this shop in 2001, it was called DC Coffee and was under different ownership, so I can't really vouch for its present incarnation, but back then the espresso was very good and the cherry scones (cherries being the leading fruit crop in Door County) were wonderful.

Kick Coffee, Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin
Again, another shop which appears to be under different ownership than when we visited in 2001, so I can't totally vouch for it, but it was good then and has a great location in downtown Sturgeon Bay, doorway to the Door County peninsula.

Cafe Julia, South Haven, Michigan
They brew coffee roasted by Intelligentsia. And have a porch with rocking chairs. Enough said.

If somehow, some way, you can't get enough of me here at Pete Lit...

...I'm also on Facebook, so friend away if you like. Be advised, however, that content is updated there only on weekends, as I can't access Facebook from my work computer during the week. But alas, I don't expect to ever be on Twitter. I already have more than enough ways to waste my time, thanks.

Maddie is a punk rocker

Move aside, Sheena. If any aspiring and very generous punk bands would like to provide free instrumental backing to her vocals, YouTube glory may be imminent.

Message to my fellow Metra commuters

If you want to have a lively, boisterous conversation with your train buddy, then sit right next to them on the train. If you want to blather on with your buddy about the inexorably tedious minutiae of your daily life, then sit right next to them on the train. If you want to tell your buddy about every single delay you experienced last night on the 6:12 train that your buddy didn't experience because they were on the usual 5:25, then sit right next to them on the train. Do not, under any circumstances, sit on opposite sides of the aisle, each of your backs to the wall, as far apart as you can be, and shout back and forth at each other at a decibel level normally reserved for airport ground crews. Especially when I'm sitting right in front of you, trying to concentrate on my reading. Thank you.

10

Ten years ago today, I said "I do" to the love of my life, and I'd eagerly do it all over again.

The Parlor Emerging Writer's Festival

I've been keeping the news under wraps for the last few weeks, but now that it's official I can finally pass it along: I'm very pleased to be invited to read at The Parlor Emerging Writer's Festival. It takes place on Saturday, May 23rd from 4:00-6:30 PM at Green Lantern Gallery, 1511 N. Milwaukee Ave., Chicago.

It’s awesome - we’ve got a great line-up ahead for our Emerging Writer’s Festival on Saturday May 23rd - coincident, as it so happens, with the Pilcrow Lit Fest. Here is the roster - you should come out, it’s free and there’s a BBQ to follow on the back porch.

4:00 pm Sarah Terez Rosenblum - Where She Is
4:30 pm Jeanie Chung – Cuts and Folds
5:00 pm Peter Anderson – One Son Resists
5:30 – 5:45 BREAK
5: 45 pm J.D.K. Goodman – Another Place, Another Time
6:15 pm Jessie Morrison – The Queens of the Northwest Side
6:45 pm BBQ

I'll be reading my story "One Son Resists" which I first wrote several years ago and have put through several heavy-duty revisions since. If you live in the city or happen to be in town for Pilcrow, please thinking about swinging by Green Lantern for some great readings and to say hello.

Fortune Cookie

I had this fortune in a fortune cookie I ate this morning:

"In all matters of opinion, you always say it better."

Though I appreciate the sentiment, I know quite a few people who would vigorously dispute that claim.

Coolest. Toy. EVER.

This beauty came out in 1964. I was born in 1965. I never had one of these. The only possible conclusion? Despite what I thought was a warm, loving, comfortable family life during my early years, I now realize that I was a victim of severe child neglect.

What's your NPR host name?

This is fun.

So finally, after years of Fresh Air sign-off ambitions, we came up with a system for creating our own NPR Names. Here’s how it works: You take your middle initial and insert it somewhere into your first name. Then you add on the smallest foreign town you’ve ever visited.

My name would be Pejter Kleineichen. The town (in Germany) is just a guess, as it's the smallest of two towns I stayed in during a month-long visit to extended family while I was in high school. There may have been other, smaller towns that I visited while sightseeing, but I've long since forgotten their names.

My eight-year-old daughter...

...the entrepreneur. (Explanation here.) And no lemonade stand or pet-sitting service either, but the bare-knuckled, no-holds-barred brawl of online commerce. Yes, her mom will be handling some of the technical details for now, but other than that this is completely Maddie's gig.

The site went up just yesterday, and this morning she made her first sale (which is why there are no items at her site right now - out of stock) and is already taking success in stride. When she heard the news of her first sale, she let out a brief whoop and then quietly said "I'm going to eat my breakfast now." I doubt that Donald Trump marked the closing of his first deal so calmly.

February 12

Happy birthday to three great individuals - Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and my late father, John Anderson. Sure, my dad didn't have the global impact the other two had on humanity, but he still had a huge impact on me and everyone else who knew him. He's the greatest man I've ever known. Here's to you, Dad.

Incidentally, my grandfather was so impressed by my dad's birth date that he wanted the boy to be named Abraham Lincoln Anderson. My grandmother's clearer head prevailed, and my grandfather had to settle for my dad being nicknamed Abe, which is what his siblings and relatives called him for the rest of his life.

Free Candy!

The missus is giving away some Q.bel chocolate bars over at Chocolate Blog, one of her numerous Internet properties. Q.bel is very good stuff - I just had one for my lunch dessert - so I recommend that you rush over there and enter.

(No, the giveaway has nothing to do with Seinfeld or George Costanza. But when I thought of the subject line for this post I couldn't help remembering the infamous "stolen Twix Bar" episode of the show. That photo above is, sadly, not from that episode. I hoped to find a photo that at least showed George in a severely agitated state comparable to the one he was in when he discovered that all of his Twix bars had been eaten - but had no success doing so. Damned Internet.)

Her

Tis the season. Try one of your own.

99 things

Via (and Viva!) Julie:

Things you’ve already done: bold
Things you want to do: italicize
Things you haven’t done and don’t want to - leave in plain font

1. started your own blog
2. slept under the stars
3. played in a band (it was marching band, but still...)
4. visited Hawaii
5. watched a meteor shower
6. given more than you can afford to charity
7. been to Disneyland/world
8. climbed a mountain
9. held a praying mantis
10. sang a solo
11. bungee jumped
12. visited Paris
13. watched a lightning storm at sea
14. taught yourself an art from scratch
15. adopted a child
16. had food poisoning
17. walked to the top of the statue of liberty
18. grown your own vegetables
19. seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. slept on an overnight train
21. had a pillow fight
22. hitch hiked
23. taken a sick day when you’re not ill (forgive me IBM, for I have sinned)
24. built a snow fort
25. held a lamb
26. gone skinny dipping
27. run a marathon
28. ridden a gondola in Venice
29. seen a total eclipse
30. watched a sunrise or sunset
31. hit a home run (career total: 4)
32. been on a cruise
33. seen Niagara Falls in person
34. visited the birthplace of your ancestors (Dalsland, Sweden)
35. seen an Amish community
36. taught yourself a new language
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. seen the leaning tower of Pisa in person (if you count the replica in Niles, Illinois)
39. gone rock climbing
40. seen Michelangelo’s David in person
41. sung karaoke (The horror! The horror!)
42. seen old faithful geyser erupt
43. bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. visited Africa
45. walked on a beach by moonlight
46. been transported in an ambulance
47. had your portrait painted
48. gone deep sea fishing (and was quite seasick)
49. seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. kissed in the rain
53. played in the mud (but not recently)
54. gone to a drive-in theater
55. been in a movie
56. visited the Great Wall of China
57. started a business
58. taken a martial arts class
59. visited Russia
60. served at a soup kitchen
61. sold girl scout cookies
62. gone whale watching
63. gotten flowers for no reason
64. donated blood
65. gone sky diving
66. visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. bounced a check (I think)
68. flown in a helicopter
69. saved a favorite childhood toy (Barry!)
70. visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. eaten caviar
72. pieced a quilt
73. stood in times square
74. toured the everglades
75. been fired from a job (downsized, yes, but never singled out)
76. seen the changing of the guard in London
77. broken a bone (cracked skull)
78. been on a speeding motorcycle
79. seen the grand canyon in person (and whitewater-rafted through it)
80. published a book (and soon, dammit!)
81. visited the Vatican
82. bought a brand new car
83. walked in Jerusalem
84. had your picture in the newspaper (River Valley Clarion, circa 1978)
85. read the entire bible
86. visited the White House
87. killed and prepared an animal for eating (fish)
88. had chickenpox
89. saved someone’s life
90. sat on a jury
91. met someone famous (not exactly A-list celebrities, though)
92. joined a book club
93. lost a loved one (way too many times)
94. had a baby
95. seen the Alamo in person
96. swum in the Great Salt Lake
97. been involved in a law suit
98. owned a cell phone (grudgingly)
99. been stung by a bee

Encouraging your kids

My wife Julie passes along this great story about our daughter Maddie, LEGOS and Pokemon. Although Julie is Maddie's primary homeschool teacher, I too have heard Maddie's "I can't do it" lament on many occasions. The Cleffa story is a wonderful lesson in how important it is to encourage your kids in whatever they do, to help them overcome their initial fear of failure and to ultimately succeed - and by "succeed" I don't necessarily mean to accomplish a specific task, which kids usually won't do on the first try. Instead, they can succeed simply by making the effort and, if they fail, understanding how important it is to try again. As I mentioned in the comments, I couldn't be prouder of my little girl - not just for succeeding, but for having the courage to try.

The background image on my laptop screen is Samuel Beckett's famous quotation, "Never mind. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." Maddie has asked me about this quote several times but I don't think I've been able to adequately explain it to her yet. With age I'm sure she'll understand and appreciate the imperative to not worry about failures, but instead to keep trying and get a little bit better each time.

Us

Yes, you're absolutely right...we're quite adorable.

Orange Alert!

Jason Behrends, the tireless and astoundingly productive proprietor of What To Wear During an Orange Alert? and fledgling publisher Orange Alert Press was kind enough to interview me on various writer topics, including blogging, promotion vs. self-promotion, fiction research, print vs. online journals, handling rejection and what I'm working on, plus shout-outs for some of my favorite litblogs, rock bands and the ever-glorious Intelligentsia Coffee. Please check it out.

(Mr. Tanzer and Mr. Ostdick, I patiently await your return hype.)

Words to live by

I saw this somewhere over the weekend, but don't remember where or even the exact words, so I'll just paraphrase without attribution:

"In this economic climate, love the job you're with."

I'm taking these words to heart. I'm not at all enamored with my current job situation, but after being briefly unemployed last year (under considerably better economic conditions and while collecting full severance pay and having health insurance) I will readily admit that my employment sure beats the alternative. So I'm grinning and bearing, but also keeping an eager eye on the next step.

Julie and I make our cinematic debut.

Critics will probably dismiss this as digressive and emotionally overwrought, but I think it captures our artistic vision extremely well.

My little Pokemon trainer

Actually, not so little any longer. Sigh.

Unexpected pleasure

I didn't realize until just yesterday that weeding our big and unruly flower beds can actually be enjoyable, with just the right musical accompaniment. I hauled the old boombox outside, hooked up a long extension cord and extricated rogue grasses and clover to the incomparable strains of Television's Marquee Moon and Tom Waits' Swordfishtrombones. And after the work was done, I relaxed on the front steps in the setting sun, finished the last of my icewater and listened a second time to Waits' hauntingly lovely "A Soldier's Things". Life, as they say, is good.

Quote

"Every father goes through an experience when he’s a hero today and an old man the next."
-William Delaney, 1960 Chicago Father of the Year

Preach it, brother.

Nine years!

Julie and I sealed the deal nine years ago today - June 12, 1999, one of the two or three nicest days of my life.

(Man, get a load of that photo. I practically looked like a kid back then. That certainly was quite a few follicles ago.)

New bird in town

For the past week we've been enjoying watching a new visitor to our backyard. (Visitor for now and, I'm hoping, soon-to-be permanent resident.) Last Sunday morning I was gazing through our kitchen window when a flurry of motion caught my eye. I saw a bird I had never seen before, with striking cinnamon-colored feathers on its back. It was about the same size as a robin, and scurried around like a robin, so at first I assumed it was a juvenile of that species which had not yet attained its trademark red breast. But through binoculors I was struck by the sight of this bird's breast, which was marked by brown spots. So I consulted our bird book and quickly realized it wasn't a young robin at all, and finally decided that it had to be a brown thrasher. It's a truly beautiful bird, and has also been very fun to watch - it's very energetic and feisty (often at the expense of our robins), and while it spent the first few days rooting around in the soil for worms and bugs, it soon took a liking to the birdseed in the feeder.

Since I had never seen a brown thrasher around here, I assumed this one was migrating and just passing through, and would be gone soon. But a week has now passed, and the bird is still here. And just last night, we saw a second brown thrasher in the yard, so we're crossing our fingers that this is a mating pair that will make our backyard their home. I'm certainly going to keep that feeder filled as an enticement to the two of them.

By the way, that photo above isn't mine, but a stock photo from Wikipedia (full-sized image here) that gives a much better up-close look than I could take on my own.

Quote

"You're a writer and a financial analyst. I'm calling a mason."
- My wife Julie, after hearing my most recent vow to repair the garden wall that collapsed three years ago and still remains unfixed

"That's a mighty fine Goose."

Well, this news thoroughly blows: Goose Island loses lease, to close its Clybourn spot.

It's truly sad that Goose Island and its landlord can't come to terms on a new lease, especially given the fact the brewpub was a true pioneer for the commercial redevelopment of the Clybourn Corridor area. When Goose Island opened in 1988 (in a former Turtle Wax factory, of all things), the neighborhood was pretty dicey. Now that the area has exploded, Goose Island is on its way out.

I've got a lot of great memories of that place, most notably:

+ Office Christmas parties in 1988 and 1989, with the second one immortalized when two over-indulged co-workers took a strong liking to a plastic, interior-lighted goose on display on a counter. The goose was spied from the adjacent tap room several times during the evening, prompting one of said individuals to repeat the phrase in quotation marks above. So great was their admiration for this object of dubious aesthetic merit that, at last sufficiently fortfied and emboldened by the tenth or twelfth microbrewed draft of the evening, they finally marched over to the counter, concealed the goose under a coat and snuck it out through the back door. Although I categorically deny any knowledge of who either of these nerfarious individuals might be, I've heard rumors that the goose's residence has alternated between their two homes ever since.

+ My going-away party when I left NBD in 1991 to return to grad school. Highlights were a) a male co-worker drinking out of female co-worker's shoe; and b) the evening ending with that same male carrying that same female out of the building, slung over his shoulder. The male was married, and the female single, and I can only guess what happened after that. Whatever it might have been, it would have occurred in a Toyota Celica. (Ewww.)

+ My wife's going-away party after she quit her job at this horrible equipment leasing company which happened to be in the same neighborhood. She and her soon-to-be-former co-workers arrived in midafternoon, but I only got there after driving back from my job in the suburbs. By the time I got there the only ones left were her and this goofy guy Jim, who was the only other normal person in the company and who quite valiantly kept her sane for the last several months she worked there. The three of us stayed for several more rounds, ruthlessly mocking the other employees.

+ Stopping in with Julie for a quick dinner last summer after my first-ever public reading. The mood was pleasantly celebratory, and the food and drink was as good as ever.

Good times, good times. While I wish Goose Island the best of luck finding a new location in the area, for me it will never be the same.

Intimations of Mortality from Recollections of Early Adulthood*

Yesterday marked a significant turning point in my life. Now, for the first time since I was 19 years old - I'm now 42 - I am without a stereo. It's been a long time coming, but yesterday finally settled the matter. Last fall we had major renovations done on our family room, with new hardwood floors installed and the room repainted. In preparation we cleared everything out of the room, which included my disassembling the stereo that resided in the entertainment cabinet. The stereo was stored in the sun porch (which is closed off for the winter) along with other items from the family room, but even though the work was finished by November, I never got around to putting all the stuff back. Yesterday I finally did so, with everything put back in place but the stereo. It sat there, dusty and forlorn, on the dining room floor as I inwardly debated what to do with it.

That stereo had been a big part of my life for the better part of two decades. It was my first major purchase as an independent adult. After getting by with an inherited turntable and cheap speakers (no receiver or tape deck) during my freshman year in college, during the following summer I went to Pacific Stereo in Schaumburg and splurged on what was then a pretty nice setup - an Onkyo analog receiver, Technics turntable, Sony cassette deck and a wonderfully oversized pair of EPI speakers. Though I upgraded in later years, replacing the Sony with a Nakamichi deck and entering the digital age in 1989 with a Denon CD player, that orignal core setup was the source of untold hours of listening pleasure. Whenever I would move into a new apartment, the stereo would be the first thing taken out and set up. Clothes might not be unpacked for a few days, and kitchen utensils for weeks or even months, but from my first hour in that apartment the stereo would be fully functional and most likely cranking out music as I settled into the new digs. At one time I could have told you the first music I played in any given new place, and though I've forgotten the rest by now I can still reliably report that when I moved into my apartment in Roscoe Village in 1996 the first thing I listened to was a sampler disc from CMJ New Music Monthly that included the Apples in Stereo, which was soon supplemented by The Lounge Ax Defense and Relocation Compact Disc which was purchased on the evening of my move.

In short, that stereo was my constant companion which, due to its complete unportability, meant I was home a lot. As much as I like to fondly recall the few crazy nights of too much drinking and too little responsible behavior from those days, for the most part I was a homebody. Which is all fine. It's who I am, and who I'll always be. That stereo got me through countless hours that were solitary but not necessarily lonely.

Which brings us to yesterday. My passion for music is nowhere near what it once was, and though I still listen a lot I do so almost exclusively online, or with my iPod or laptop, or in the car. The stereo has languished during recent years, especially since my daughter was born, as I've opted for the more modern and convenient modes of listening. As I looked at the stereo sitting there on the dining room floor, wires disconnected and looking quite aged, I finally realized that its time had passed. One by one I lugged the components up to the attic, where I returned them safely to their original boxes which I've kept for all these years. So while I haven't discarded the stereo completely, up there in the attic it's very much out of sight, out of mind, and most likely I'll never listen to it again.

As I undertook this sober act yesterday, my wife sensed what was going on inside my head. I finally made an attempt at a lighthearted comment, saying in mock-solemn tones that I had reached a major turning point in my life. She was an English major in college, and in response she laughed and said "Oh, okay, Prufrock." She specifically cited Eliot's line "Do I dare to eat a peach?", which got me thinking of the entire stanza. A quick perusal of the Norton Anthology brought these once-familiar verses back to mind:

I grow old…I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

Quite a reflection on aging and mortality, that was. But never mind. Despite the somber mood of all of the above, there's no need to worry about me. I've moved on with my life. And I'll still hear the mermaids singing, each to each - just not via my Onyko TX-21 analog receiver.

(*My deepest apologies to Wordsworth. The Prufrock comment got me nostalgic for the few poems I remember from my British lit class. Here's to you, Dr. Cole, wherever you are.)

Fight childhood cancer! Donate to St. Baldrick's!

Several people have asked me if I'm doing St. Baldrick's again this year. The quick answer is no, but please continue reading. My friends, family and longtime blog readers should be very familiar with St. Baldrick's by now, but for everyone else here's a quick synopsis.

St. Baldrick's Foundation is a charitable organization which raises funds for clinical research and treatment of childhood cancer. Despite tremendous progress made over the years, cancer remains the single most deadly disease for children. Every year, in the months leading up to St. Patrick's Day, thousands of St. Baldrick's volunteers solicit donations which are passed along to several hundred medical institutions involved in research and treatment of childhood cancer. Since its inception in 2000, St. Baldrick's has raised over $34 million in donations for cancer research, with annual totals escalating rapidly as the group's exposure has widened dramatically. As part of the fundraising process, just before St. Patrick's Day there are also St.Baldrick's events scheduled at dozens of public locations at which the volunteers (men AND women) have their heads shaved as a show of solidarity with child cancer patients, many of whom lose their hair from chemotherapy treatments.

I participated in St. Baldrick's from 2004 through 2007, raising over $5,000 in donations from generous souls like yourselves, despite my nearly complete lack of sales and/or coercive skills. However, for reasons I can't quite explain, I never got around to registering for this year's event despite the fact that I still firmly believe in St. Baldrick's and the fight against childhoood cancer. But just because I'm not directly participating this year doesn't mean that you can't donate to the cause, and thus I strongly encourage all of you to consider making a tax-deductible donation. No amount is too small, and every little bit helps. Every dollar raised gets us that much closer to curing childhood cancer.

If you're interested, you can donate online with a credit card, or you can mail a check (payable to "St. Baldrick's Foundation") to:

St. Baldrick's Foundation
1443 E. Washington Boulevard, #650
Pasadena, CA 91104-2650

To all donors, my sincerest thanks!

By the way, I fully intend to resume my participation in St. Baldrick's next year, complete with the regular badgering of everyone I know for donations, and the public shearing of my already balding scalp. Meanwhile, though I won't be getting sheared at a formal St. Baldrick's event this year, over the weekend I'll shave my head in St. Baldrick's honor and post my photo here.